


The Commons of Sleep

by Vera



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M, Remixed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-03
Updated: 2004-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In dreams, JC feels hands on his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Commons of Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [Symptoms of Love](http://www.obsessivetendencies.net/challenge/graves.html) challenge.
> 
> Unfortunately, _The Commons of Sleep_ is not online anywhere I can access. I believe it is in Graves's _Poems 1930-1933_. I found it in a two volume complete Graves. Each volume cost about $100, so I read it in the bookshop! It's a beautiful and demonishly sexy, disturbing poem.
> 
> This was a lovely challenge, fun to write and pleasant to think about when I wasn't writing. I definitely like title challenges. They're up there with picture challenges in my bumper book of happy fun. Thanks to smartlikejustin for making it happen.
> 
> This story was remixed in 2009.

> _In dreams, JC feels hands on his body, confident hands that touch his arms and his neck, rubbing out tension and rubbing in relaxation. They spend what feels like hours on his neck, the knots between his shoulder blades, never straying too close to his ticklish armpits, sometimes pushing up into his hair, a sensation that makes him smile helplessly. _

Joey's pinky ring flashes in the sunlight as he drums his hands against the table. Morning is sharp through the big glass windows of the reception room and they've hours and hours of interviews before them. Joey shifts tempo, an impatient and driving ska rhythm that sets JC's foot to tapping. The metallic bang of Joey's ring, the slap of his palms and under his breath he's started up a humming, popping melody. JC can feel it in his spine and in his knees, he wants to dance and the chair is stopping him. He recalls choreography with chairs, but they're usually ladderbacks or bentwood - tough prop chairs, not these soft, broad-armed, ergonomically designed prisons on casters.

A PR flunky pops his head around the door and says, "Two minutes, and we send the first batch in." Joey drums to a crescendo and a slapping finish. His palms are bright red; JC thinks they probably feel hot, stinging. He drinks some water and taps his fingers surreptitiously on his knees.

> _He doesn't know it, but the dreams never start until he's wrapped around the pillow, lying on his belly, as if the phantom hands need him to offer up his back before they touch._

It's a cliche, but Justin is like a puppy, big hands and big feet and one day he'll grow into them, one day soon, but for now his hands sometimes seem like they don't belong to his arms. What was that movie with Uma Thurman and hitch-hiking? Like that, only not. JC hums a polka tune, trying to catch the movie's name as hovers just out of reach and Justin cuffs him across the back of his head.

"Don't put that fucking thing into my brain, dude."

"Sorry."

> _When he's floating, almost asleep in sleep, the hands move down and down starting to unfold the tension wrapped around his waist and tying up his lower back. Muscles lie close under his skin and the hands seem to savour the shape of him, firm where muscle ropes his hips to his spine but gentle on his tender bones._

In the salon they're sat side by side. Lance swears by Vanessa but JC has always preferred Talecia. She bitches to him about his nails, constantly comparing his dry skin and ridged nails to Lance's shining, soft-skinned, smooth-nailed perfection. JC suspects that Lance does his own manicure before he visits his manicurist. Talecia complains that JC does it to her on purpose, that he never listens to her advice and then she talks over him when he swears he's been moisturizing.

"The gloves, baby, you haven't been putting on the gloves after moisturizing, have you? No you haven't. Lance does, don't you, sweetie? Mmmhmmm. Why am I always stuck doing you instead of Lance? Vanessa has it easy every time. You, you'd make my mother cry, hands like these. Do you wash up dishes with these hands? Why would a rich boy like you be mistreating his hands?"

JC looks to Lance for moral support but Lance and Vanessa are smirking at each other, bonding over Lance's beautiful, languid hands.

> _At this point his dreamy bliss curls in his belly because soon, soon the hands will press down on his glutes, and he'll realise that he's hard, has been hard probably since the hands' familiar first touch, palms cupping his shoulders, warm and promising. The floating pleasure of muscle relaxation will have kept his attention on the hands, on every sweet touch, but now it will be as though the hands want focus, to receive attention rather than to soothe and distract. _

"Hey, C, guess who?" Hands over his eyes, a little rough-edged and damp with sweat. He twitches away from them, blinking.

"It's only a surprise if you don't give it away by talking."

Chris flops down on the couch beside him and shoots him an exasperated look.

"Half the fun in games is playing along, you big spoilsport."

Chris's fingers are twiddling one of his braids, twisting it up into a tight coil and letting it spring loose over and over again. It's ruining the braid, he can see it lose form, see hairs spring free. He stops Chris, wraps his hand around Chris's hand and says, "Don't. You'll wreck it."

"JC. I didn't know you cared." Chris's hand turns in his and Chris's fingers are twined through his and palm to palm, JC feels a tingling energy, the energy his meditation exercise tapes say he'll feel if he just relaxes enough, concentrates enough, let's go enough, focuses enough.

Chris tugs him closer; swinging braids blur as Chris kisses him.


End file.
